thousands of
steadily glowing points. At the center was a blue disk, around which the four
other colors shone in quadrants—white to the east, yellow to the south, red to
the west, and green to the north. She knew that the lanterns were held by
Tibetan nomads, the plains people, but she could see no individuals from this
altitude.
“Aren’t we landing
here?” she asked.
“Not this
one,” Jetsun said.
“There are
dozens burning tonight,” said Dr. Norbu. “They will appear all over the
countryside, and should distract the Chinese.”
“And what do
the Chinese think is happening out here all of a sudden?”
“This isn’t
sudden, Marianne. The nomads have been doing this for decades. The mandalas are
beacons to the night, signals shining out to the gods.”
She shook
her head. “The gods don’t travel in flying saucers.”
“Do you know
this for a fact? Why shouldn’t the gods avail themselves of technology, if it
provides a means of reaching those in need?”
“Right,” she
said. “The legends say that the first king of Tibet descended to earth on a
sky-cord. I suppose he was a passing alien in a human-suit.”
“And when he
died,” said Jetsun, “his body vanished completely—poof! No trace of it.”
“Obviously
there was a matter transmitter in orbit.” She sank back into her seat,
laughing.
Dr. Norbu
sighed. “Many people used to say that death was a frontier we would never
explore.”
“Science has
stripped the human soul of any lingering vestige of privacy,” she said. She
shook her head. “And to think I’m the one responsible.”
She glanced
over at Reting and saw that her words had upset him. The Bardo device had been
the center of his life for many years.
“I’m sorry,”
she said. “I shouldn't tease you. Of course the gods are aliens. Nothing like
Chenrezi could have evolved on this planet. Perhaps one day, after eons of
peace, it will be possible to have eyes in our palms; but they make one rather
vulnerable in hand-to-hand combat.”
“I didn’t
say I shared the nomads’ beliefs,” he said. “Some Communist instructor must
have given a halfhearted explanation of religious psychology, attempting to
describe the etiology of the gods, and the people turned it around to suit
their needs. It is fortunate that they have salvaged any sort of spirituality
from the depredations of the last two hundred years.”
Marianne
nodded. “I know.”
“And
besides,” he continued after a moment, “you are about to see something for
which even the most farfetched explanations seem unsatisfactory.”
“Mm. I
suppose.”
“So keep an
open mind.”
“We never
close,” she murmured, thinking of the Nowrojee Supermarket in Dharamsala. That
motto was inscribed on a placard in the grimy display window, and nothing could
have been less true of the shop with the most erratic hours in northern India.
It was hard
to imagine that twenty-four hours ago she had been asleep in her own bed,
spending her last night at home in the comfortable old house above Dharamsala.
Her mother had been shocked to find out where the Tibetan government had housed
her. It was a condominium-style building that looked as if it had been imported
direct from the United States. Her parents had noted it with disapproval on
their brief visit to India decades before.
She didn’t
imagine that her mother would look with any greater pleasure on her present
situation. Fortunately, she was well past the age of consent. Kate could
protest, but that was the extent of her power over her daughter. Marianne
required no more permission slips from Geneva—where Mother had remained after
Father’s death—in order to work for the exiled government of Tibet.
Father
himself had never voiced an objection to her activities, and didn’t seem likely
to do so. He was “Peter Strauss” no longer, but a three-year-old Swiss boy
named Nicholas Tiedemann. Marianne had followed his death in the Bardo device,
keeping him in
steadily glowing points. At the center was a blue disk, around which the four
other colors shone in quadrants—white to the east, yellow to the south, red to
the west, and green to the north. She knew that the lanterns were held by
Tibetan nomads, the plains people, but she could see no individuals from this
altitude.
“Aren’t we landing
here?” she asked.
“Not this
one,” Jetsun said.
“There are
dozens burning tonight,” said Dr. Norbu. “They will appear all over the
countryside, and should distract the Chinese.”
“And what do
the Chinese think is happening out here all of a sudden?”
“This isn’t
sudden, Marianne. The nomads have been doing this for decades. The mandalas are
beacons to the night, signals shining out to the gods.”
She shook
her head. “The gods don’t travel in flying saucers.”
“Do you know
this for a fact? Why shouldn’t the gods avail themselves of technology, if it
provides a means of reaching those in need?”
“Right,” she
said. “The legends say that the first king of Tibet descended to earth on a
sky-cord. I suppose he was a passing alien in a human-suit.”
“And when he
died,” said Jetsun, “his body vanished completely—poof! No trace of it.”
“Obviously
there was a matter transmitter in orbit.” She sank back into her seat,
laughing.
Dr. Norbu
sighed. “Many people used to say that death was a frontier we would never
explore.”
“Science has
stripped the human soul of any lingering vestige of privacy,” she said. She
shook her head. “And to think I’m the one responsible.”
She glanced
over at Reting and saw that her words had upset him. The Bardo device had been
the center of his life for many years.
“I’m sorry,”
she said. “I shouldn't tease you. Of course the gods are aliens. Nothing like
Chenrezi could have evolved on this planet. Perhaps one day, after eons of
peace, it will be possible to have eyes in our palms; but they make one rather
vulnerable in hand-to-hand combat.”
“I didn’t
say I shared the nomads’ beliefs,” he said. “Some Communist instructor must
have given a halfhearted explanation of religious psychology, attempting to
describe the etiology of the gods, and the people turned it around to suit
their needs. It is fortunate that they have salvaged any sort of spirituality
from the depredations of the last two hundred years.”
Marianne
nodded. “I know.”
“And
besides,” he continued after a moment, “you are about to see something for
which even the most farfetched explanations seem unsatisfactory.”
“Mm. I
suppose.”
“So keep an
open mind.”
“We never
close,” she murmured, thinking of the Nowrojee Supermarket in Dharamsala. That
motto was inscribed on a placard in the grimy display window, and nothing could
have been less true of the shop with the most erratic hours in northern India.
It was hard
to imagine that twenty-four hours ago she had been asleep in her own bed,
spending her last night at home in the comfortable old house above Dharamsala.
Her mother had been shocked to find out where the Tibetan government had housed
her. It was a condominium-style building that looked as if it had been imported
direct from the United States. Her parents had noted it with disapproval on
their brief visit to India decades before.
She didn’t
imagine that her mother would look with any greater pleasure on her present
situation. Fortunately, she was well past the age of consent. Kate could
protest, but that was the extent of her power over her daughter. Marianne
required no more permission slips from Geneva—where Mother had remained after
Father’s death—in order to work for the exiled government of Tibet.
Father
himself had never voiced an objection to her activities, and didn’t seem likely
to do so. He was “Peter Strauss” no longer, but a three-year-old Swiss boy
named Nicholas Tiedemann. Marianne had followed his death in the Bardo device,
keeping him in
Similar Books
